Kiss of Death
by imitateslife
Summary: It was an ordinary Monday, save for the silence. And if Erik could not have an ordinary life with an ordinary love, Nadir would be certain that Erik could have an ordinary death. Erik/Nadir. One-Shot. Kay-based.
It was an ordinary Monday morning when Death came for Erik. It was merciful; it was swift. Death moved on such silent feet that Nadir was certain Erik was only sleeping when he crossed from the parlor to Erik's bedroom. He had free range now of the house on the lake – something he'd always craved – but neither he nor Erik dared to go into the Louis-Philippe room. And after last night, Nadir had slept upon the sofa, insisting that it was too late to make the (admittedly short) trip to his Rue de Rivioli flat. In truth, he had only craved closeness to his dearest friend. They were lovers now, in almost all senses of the word. In all the senses that _mattered_. The texture of Erik's soul and skin were as familiar terrain to Nadir as a well-traveled path. He was familiar with him; at home with him. If he had things his way, he would sleep curled around Erik, pressed against his back so that it was damn near impossible to tell where one man ended and one began. But they both could not fit into the coffin bed Erik had crafted for himself and Nadir never dared ask, for fear of rejection. Erik was a curious soul. For all that he professed to crave affection, he shied away from the slightest of touches. There were nights – and days, as it all blurred together when half your time was spent below ground – when the waves of desire were too much to bear and Nadir discarded gentlemanly ways and kissed Erik until the latter was stupefied and the former satisfied. But they never spoke of it and they never spoke of love.

But it was the only word Nadir knew to describe what he felt for Erik now.

What he'd felt for him for years.

Yesterday had been an ordinary Sunday. At sunset, they ventured out to the Bois and walked together through the park, admiring the dying light upon the pond and speaking in hushed tones of memories they shared. They did not speak of the future – not anymore – and Nadir hadn't noticed future tense slip from their conversations until now – until he realized… But. Their Sunday stroll had been a marvelous thing in its simplicity and revelatory in its routine. Nothing about Erik had ever been routine, but now, whatever else the week brought, Nadir could count on a walk through the park, soft witticisms, angry scoffs, and belly-laughter he hadn't known since their days in Persia together as young men.

But today was Monday and when Nadir awoke, neck pinched from sleeping on the sofa, he awoke alone and to an eerie stillness. There was no music, as so often there was, and no tea upon the samovar. There was no note from the Opera Ghost telling Nadir to find his way home. Nothing at all. Nothing had changed, nothing had moved. Nadir looked for the signs of life he'd come to associate with Erik, but found nothing. He wandered to Erik's bedroom and listened outside the door for a long moment, straining to hear movement of any sort, even the slightest turn of a book's page. Nothing. He knocked before cracking the door open. The room was still and silent. Erik lay upon his funereal bed and his chest did not rise and fall. For a moment, Nadir expected this to be another of Erik's many illusions. He said nothing, but folded his arms and waited.

And waited.

And silence.

And stillness.

And nothing.

Nadir felt the cold of realization sink into his bones. He approached Erik's coffin bed, knowing exactly what he would see, but hoping for any kind of miracle. Instead, he saw Erik – as he presumed he would – motionless. Nadir's hand darted to feel for a pulse at Erik's wrists and then his neck. Nothing. Nothing at all. Even Erik – the greatest magician in the world – could not restart his own stopped heart. Nadir wondered if anything ever could make his own heart beat again now that the man he had lived for more than half his life was gone. How blind had he been, not to see Erik's decline? How clever had Erik been to fall ill and never let on? Nadir studied his unmasked features… the sunken eyes, grossly receded lips, and the place where his nose ought to have been. Erik could not have known he was going to die. If he had, he would have done so with dignity… with his mask on. Nadir knew him too well to think that Erik would have chosen to die without it. He reached out to trace Erik's cheek. Death had chased Erik across continents, across years and had found him alone, far below ground, and exposed.

But not unloved.

The face which inspired such revulsion in others – and in Nadir when first he saw it – only aroused the most tender of feelings now. Such sorrow, such love. It was not the way Erik would have chosen to die, but Nadir was grateful to see him face to face one last time. He didn't know how long he looked at Erik or for how long he wept at his side, but a warmer realization spread through Nadir's body as he realized that for once, Erik could not resist his touch. The kisses he pressed to Erik's exposed skin began at the forehead, then to each eyelid, his lips, and then at last to Erik's glorious hands with which Nadir had first fallen in love with what felt like lifetimes ago.

Then, when he had the strength, Nadir released his lover and found one of his simple, but elegant black masks and placed it upon him, as he would have wished. Then, gently, he folded Erik's hands upon his chest. At last, Nadir understood why the bed had a lid to it. He reached to close it and looked back at Erik one last time. He looked as he always had and how he did in so many of Nadir's memories. And he would never fade, not for _him_ , but go on forever haunting Nadir's heart with all the ugly things he had said and the beautiful ones he let slip by in the silences.

" _Au revoir, mon amour_."


End file.
